My body should be screaming alarm bells—men crowding my space always makes me feel that way now, ever sincehedestroyed everything. But my pulse races for different reasons.The humiliation of Candace's words still burns hotter than any panic.
“I said, that’s a shame.But”—he smiles the tiniest bit, his lips lifting slightly at the corners—“I think my shirt proves as evidence that waitressing isn't your calling.” He drops his chin to gesture down at his stained shirt.
Heat rises to my cheeks, my skin feeling like it’s on fire. I’m sure I’m bright red under his scrutiny. He’s watching me intently, waiting for me to say something else.
“I guess not,” I mutter.
“Sit with me.” He backs up a step, gesturing toward the table where his jacket and a fresh drink sit.
My head spins with questions.
“W-Why?” I’m sure my mouth is hanging open like a confused fool. Why in the world would he want me to sit with him?
“Sit with me,” he repeats. It’s not a question, more like a demand.
For whatever reason, my feet listen, and my body obeys. It’s not until we’ve reached the table, and he’s pulling out a chair for me that I stop. “I can’t,” I whisper.
“Do you have somewhere better to be?”
“No, but I?—”
“Just got fired.”
“Yeah,” is all that leaves my lips, pouting and defeated.
“So you can’t sit with me because you’re no longer employed here?” One thick eyebrow quirks.
“I… Well, I don’t think… Uhm. I—" I stumble over my words as my heart beats faster. I don’t even know why I’m refusing his offer. Probably because I’m ashamed and emotional and overwhelmed by the reality of what it means to be officially jobless. “I have to get my things.”
“And after you get your things?”
My lips press together in a thin line. He’s relentless.
“Fine, at least tell me this. What’s your name?” he asks.
I'm running out of time before I collapse into a full-on breakdown, and I’d really like to be in my bedroom when that happens. But something is pulling me to this handsome stranger in the whiskey-covered suit.
“Grace,” I breathe out hesitantly.
“Grace…?”
He wants my last name too? I think better of it, but his intense gaze stares me down, wordlessly demanding an answer. Maybe it's the good girl inside me—the one who always obeys, who makes sure she does nothing wrong so that no one has to worry about her—that feels the need to be compliant. Or maybe it's the tone of his voice, the way he commands me.
“Morgan,” I finally say.
“Well, Miss Morgan, I might have an idea. If you’re interested, of course.”
An idea? “About?” I ask, even more tentative than I was a minute ago.
“A job,” he states coolly. His hand reaches into his pocket, plucking out a white business card that he places into my hand. “Come to my office the day after tomorrow, 11:30. I’ll fill you in on my proposal.”
Bewilderment swirls through my already messy brain. What could he possibly have to propose to me?
“I’ll see you then.” He speaks with the utmost confidence that I’ll absolutely be there. With one last glance he steps back, putting space between the two of us.
I watch as he walks away, abandoning his table and the fresh drink that was waiting for him. Instead, he grabs his coat and stalks out of the club.
Once he’s gone, I look down at the business card he placed in my palm.
